


Painted Clouds

by Naja_Moonshadow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Smut, Language, Mean Ron, OCD Percy, Outcast Percy, Percy Weasley/OC - Freeform, Slow Build, transgender character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:03:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naja_Moonshadow/pseuds/Naja_Moonshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy Weasley loves coffee, specifically he loves lattes. And he might, just maybe, really like the barista who makes them. If she weren't so fond of color.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Too Embarrassed to Return

**Author's Note:**

> Percy Weasley is, in my humble opinion, a rather ignored character. So here's a little Percy love. I own nothing; sadly, this world and it's delightful characters belong to Jk. Rowling.

 

       It was quiet, neat, orderly and above all, quiet. The smooth polished bar-top, the impeccably clean high-stools, the sparse decorations on subdued cream-colored walls…it appealed to Percy. It appealed to his sense of geometry. He liked things lined up nicely. Predictably.

       Predictability was another thing that appealed to Percy, which is why he came every day to this coffee shop after work to enjoy a nice, burning hot café latte. In his refined opinion, it was the best café latte in the city. He had very refined opinions about many things in his life and this coffee shop was subject to at least three of his many opinions. The first being that it was almost too clean for some people. Everything was polished, vacuumed and scrubbed to an inch of its life. The second being that the lattes were of singular quality. And the third…well, it was less of an opinion than an observation. He felt…good here. Safe, secluded. He liked knowing that no one he knew would be coming here. It was nearly across town from work.

        “Hello Percy.” The barista greeted him with smile as he selected his favorite stool. He always sat in the same one, behind the counter and away from the sparse other patrons. It was against the wall, in the corner. The lights were dimmer here.

       “Hello Vanessa. Lovely evening.” He glanced at the windows, realizing belatedly that it might not, in fact, be a lovely evening. As it happened, it wasn’t. Cloudy, misty, though it hadn’t yet begun to rain. The kind of evening that London was famous for, but which was always mildly depressing. He frowned at the bar-top, feeling the irritating flush of embarrassment that accompanied his realization that he’d walked all the way from Tuttles Street to here, without noticing the fog.

       “Here love, you need it.” She handed his latte across to him and he dared glance at her. She was smiling at him and he disliked the way it made him feel. “And your paper.” She passed the article across to him and he took it, setting it out in quick succession so he could make a show of studying the headlines. Vanessa left him alone, puttering about behind the counter.

       He remembered the first time he’d encountered this particular coffee shop. It had been raining then, pouring really. He was hungry and cold, contemplating his flat with something less than enthusiasm. He had ducked in really only to escape the rain, and because it was one of the few places that welcomed wizarding kind in this part of town. The Ward Charm above the door was a good one too, and he approved of neat spell-work.

       It had been warm and he’d picked the corner to sit in, at the bar-top so he wouldn’t feel—inevitably—uncomfortable about sitting alone. He disliked that he felt uncomfortable about it, but the feeling was somehow inescapable. Then he’d caught a flash of white blonde hair behind the counter and—for an instant—had had the strangest and most unreasonable feeling of dislike as his mind told him it must be a Malfoy.

       Except it wasn’t. It was a tall, slim-hipped girl with blonde hair so fine and silvery that a Malfoy would, in fact, be a tad jealous of it. She had large gray eyes and a smile that gave him feelings he disliked. Her name-tag read Vanessa G. and sported a small, neatly drawn cat-face in permanent marker.

       He’d been of a mind to dry himself out and warm up for a bit then move on, except that he’d felt obligated—by custom and social graces at least—to purchase something from the short menu of coffees and teas. And then she’d made him that latte. And he knew he was coming back.

      “Another?” She had arrived back before him, startling him from his reminiscences. He handed the cup back to her and she got him a new one. Some of the patrons let her use the same cup the second time around—perhaps rinsed—but she had never even offered him that option. He watched her steaming the milk, hands deft as she wielded the clunky machines. He wondered, not for the first time, why she didn’t use a more magical apparatus. He suspected that it was simply because this tasted better.

     “Here love.” She smiled at him again and he quickly looked away. He was, uncomfortably, aware that her smile affected him. Her soft voiced affected him. She was everything his mother wasn’t. Tall, built like a willow sapling. Her very long, silvery hair was brushed to a polished shine and she wore it in a variety of trendily disheveled styles, with fine strands always getting in her eyes and brushing her high cheeks. She wore a silver stud in her nose, and when she wore one of her thinner shirts he could see the dark traces of tattoos down her spine. She wore clothes that reminded him—even more uncomfortably—that it had been a very long time since had seen a woman without her clothes. It reminded him also, with a sharp stab in his chest, of how lacking that encounter had been. She favored slim legged jeans and tops that were too big for her. She wore strange necklaces and too many rings. She was friendly but quiet. He intensely disliked how she made him feel. He wanted very much to dislike _her_ as well, though that proved more difficult. Vanessa was too unassuming to really dislike.

    The evening was wearing on. He was studiously ignoring the clock. He was painfully aware of the time passing, knowing that his routine was abandoned tonight. He hated abandoning it, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to carry it out either. The fog was to blame. He decided on that and went with it. He disliked being damp and the fog had thickened perceptibly since he’d arrived. He’d finished reading the interesting bits of his paper almost an hour ago and was now picking over the advertisements, like a dog worrying a bone.  
    Vanessa had abandoned her station behind the bar, sweeping about the place, feet and hips moving to a rhythm he strongly suspected was in her mind alone. She reached the far wall, nearing him and climbed up onto a stool to adjust the large painting hanging there. It was a relief when it settled back square—that slight tilt had been driving him crazy for over a week but he had long ago learned it was best not to disturb things that did not belong to him.

     “Do you like it?” She had caught him watching. This time he couldn’t look away or feign disinterest. He glanced at the painting. He hated it. It was a riot of brush-strokes and while the colors didn’t clash, there was just too much of it. He knew nothing about art, nor really cared to, but he did like the lattes.

    “Who is the artist?” He covered that question with one of his own.

    “Me.” She tilted her head at him and for an instant he was thirteen years old again, being skewered by Lacy Stiltwing for being caught watching her swimming in the lake. He felt as if all of his internal organs had suddenly crowded into his throat and he swallowed too loudly. “Do you paint Percy?”

    “No.” He squeaked. It was a definite squeak. It sounded a bit like that time that George had charmed his underwear to shrink and his balls had ended up bruised. She smiled; he flushed, his skin suddenly sweaty and itchy beneath his work suit. His robes suddenly felt ill-fitted and stiff.

    “You should.” Was all she said and then she left him, humming quietly, some classical tune he vaguely recognized, the starlight end of her braid swinging near the base of her spine. He panicked and gathered his things, darting for the door so that he could stand in the cooler fog and angrily chide himself. When he reached the corner he turned and regretfully looked back at the coffee shop. He, of course, could never return here now. He was far too embarrassed for that.


	2. Dreams Intrude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy finds that ideas--dreams--can be insidious, persistent and entirely too intrusive in his life...

      He stood stiff and still. His flat was quiet, though he could distantly hear the neighbors fighting, their voices reduced to muffled growling noises and a high whine by the walls.

      Everything was in its place. His walls were empty, his floors clean of dust or scuff marks. The carpet was a little dingy, but he couldn’t get it any cleaner and he couldn’t afford to have it replaced. Everything was exactly as he’d left it that morning.

      Except…except for the small paint-kit that sat, accusingly, on his kitchen counter. The receipt sat next to it, the printing smudged. For once, that little idiosyncrasy didn’t have his attention. Instead, the box of paints with the included brushes had his full attention. Next to it sat a canvas. Not a big one—he couldn’t afford a big one—it was roughly the size of a sheet of paper. It at least was clean. White. Smooth and neat.

      It had been a ridiculous notion. Absolutely ridiculous. And worse still, it had been because of that _dream_.

      Percy was not one to dream much. He didn’t hold with dreams, they were often untidy and fantastical, two things he could really do without. He tended to forget his dreams the moment he woke and he rarely recalled one for as long as this one had clung to him. Even now he could recall it, fresh and crisp, to his mind.

      It was stupid really. He had dreamed of the coffee shop. It had nearly two weeks since he’d been there. The ache of the loss of his routine had ebbed a bit, though he’d not worked up the nerve to ask for a latte anywhere else. And then he’d dreamed. He was sitting in his corner, drinking his latte and then he’d turned to find Vanessa standing behind him. The canvas on the wall was crooked again. And then she’d just smiled and said, _“You should try.”_ And then he woke. He put down the dreams tenacity to the fact that most of it had really happened. She had not been standing so close to him life, but he imagined that little discrepancy was hardly relevant. He also thought it hardly relevant that her eyes had seemed to be an unusually clear gray.

      Then, when he’d gone to pick up new quills and a blotter, _it_ had been there. That foolish little box of paints and that small canvas next to it, as if they were _destined_ to be purchased together. He was uncomfortably aware that he didn’t actually remember picking them up. He _did_ remember purchasing them though. He had felt awkward standing at the register, the foreign objects on the counter before him. Shelling out coins had been a stiff action, with muscles rigidly performing their duty as if their very tissue protested it. The sales boy had smiled absently, bagging the items absently. Percy knew that rationally her smile hadn’t been mocking, but he felt judged right from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes. Stupid really.

      Even more stupid that he was standing here, clenched with discomfort and indecision. He couldn’t possibly _keep_ the offending items. He was never going to use them. And he was certainly not leaving them in his flat. The most rational thing was to chuck them in the bin.

      He did hate to waste the funds however. He carefully accounted for every cent of his extremely meager income each month. The items had been more expensive than he usually allowed on sundries. He could return them of course, but then he’d have to face the shop-clerk again. His spine tensed as he imagined standing before him, handing the items back over the counter. If he had felt judged for buying them, how foolish would he feel _returning_ them? It was against his nature to waste things, even childish paints and blank canvas, however he’d rather bin them than face returning them.

      _He could paint something._ The notion scuttled through his mind and vanished, as if it had been embarrassed to be there. He hesitated, for an instant, one hand reaching out. He brought it back to his side hastily, flushing with embarrassment at its temporary betrayal. What on earth would he paint? Why would he? Paint was messy. He had a distinct clenching sensation in his stomach as he remembered Ginny when she was small. Paint-smeared hands, and fingerprints in untidy colors all over the table and walls, scrawled ‘art’ that his parents stuck to every available surface. He scowled, irritated although there was no mess in his flat.

      Paint was messy. It was frivolous. Foolish even. He needed to stop worrying about it.

      He swept the items back into their bag and set it on the floor next to the door. The next time he went out he would return the items. Better to face a few minutes discomfort and have the coin back in his hand, then to allow this irrational and useless mental debate to continue. He had better things to do. Like re-organizing his sock drawers.

     

 

      Percy woke blurrily, feeling faintly disoriented. He reached automatically for his glasses, which he pushed onto his nose and stared at the distant ceiling. He blinked at it for a long moment, looking at a water stain that had been slowly growing over the last few months. The landlord had ignored him when he requested something be done about it.

      He’d had a dream…he frowned faintly, disturbed for some unknown reason. Something lingered… _something_ …something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was aware of some mild physical discomfort in his body—a full bladder and a hungry stomach and a hard warmth…his frown tightened. He threw back the blankets and rose. The embarrassing discomfort would fade once he got busy. It was his day off and he had things to do.

      It was some hours later, as he stood in front of a half-finished canvas debating over the exact shading of his cloudscape, that Percy realized his dreams were beginning to intrude on his daily life. The thought was so upsetting he threw the canvas away immediately, dumping it unceremoniously into the garbage after meticulously wiping the half-finished cloudscape out with a precisely performed vanishing charm.


End file.
